she doesn’t particularly enjoy the quiet. not like this. the subway station, abandoned. all trace of their prior existence here washed away like a storm drain flushed clear after a flood. the residual drip, drip of water somewhere in the distance, magnified by whatever cavernous space it occupied only seemed to add to root’s morose attitude. she’s lingering near the subway car, hand on the door frame while she performs a slow sweep of the area.
i don’t want to see you for awhile.
it’s understood, of course. the punishment for sins committed. so much blood on her hands already.
she’s gone, the voice in her head, the stilled calm to her beating pulse. there’s no preemptive warning, no coolly delivered series of cryptographic denominations or numbers to signify to whom the sudden footsteps belong.
there’s no threat-- even with so much coddling she’s developed a keen sense of danger vs. safety. the slow strides ( heels, expensive ones ) along with the silhouette presented in the stairwell could belong to only one person. hands are slid into pockets as root swivels, head cocked slightly, all evidence of a somber atmosphere dissipating in the hook of her smirk.
‘ if you’re looking for john, i’m afraid he’s not home.
